[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVIII.--NO. 895. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
JOHN HENRY.
BY MARY E. WILKINS.
Two days before Christmas John Henry sat on the top rail of the fence
which separated the seven-acre lot from the oat-field. There were five
rails in the fence, on account of two cows addicted to jumping being
kept in the seven-acre lot, and consequently John Henry was perched at
quite a dizzy height from the ground. His mother would have been
exceedingly nervous had she seen him there. He was her only child; his
two older brothers had died in infancy; he had himself been very
delicate, and it had been hard work to rear him. The neighbors said that
Martha Anne Lewis had brought up John Henry wrapped in cotton-wool under
a glass shade, and that she believed him to be both sugar and salt as
far as sun and rain were concerned. "Never lets him go out in the hot
sun without an umbrella," said they, "and never lets him out at all on a
rainy day--always keeps him at home, flattening his nose against the
window-pane."
Poor John Henry's mother was afraid to have him climb trees or coast
down hill, and he might never have enjoyed these boyish sports had it
not been for his father. When he was quite small, his father took him
out in the pine woods and taught him how to climb a tall tree.
"Don't you be afraid, sonny. A boy can't live in this world and not be
picked on unless he can climb."
John Henry went to the top of the tree in triumph, and when his mother
turned pale at the recital, his father only laughed.
"I'd have caught him if he'd fallen, Martha Anne," he said; "and John
Henry has got to climb a tree, unless you want to set him up for a girl
and done with it."
However, Mrs. Lewis stipulated that John Henry should not climb unless
his father was with him, and also that he should not go coasting without
him. The result was that until John Henry was twelve he had had very few
boy-mates. He went to the district school, but that was only a quarter
of a mile from his home, and he did not have to carry his dinner, and he
always came straight home, because his mother was so anxious if he was
late.
"Better humor your mother, sonny, and not stay to play with the boys,
she gets so worried," his father told him.
So John Henry always trudged faithfully home, in spite of cajoling
shouts, and sometimes taunts about being tied to mother's apron-strings.
However, the taunts were rather cautiously given; John Henry, mother's
boy though he was, had still a pretty spirit of his own, and his small
fists were harder than they looked. Once or twice there had been a
scuffle, in which he had not been worsted. His mother had chided and
wept over him on his return, and held anxious consultations with the
teachers and the other boys' mothers, but John Henry had gained his firm
footing in school, in spite of his pink face, his smooth hair, his
little ruffled shirts, and the cake and sugared doughnuts which he
brought to eat at recess. None of the other boys brought such luncheons;
indeed, the most of them were dependent upon spruce gum and the cores of
their friends' apples, and none of them wore such fine clothes.
It was quite a grief to Mrs. Lewis that she could not exercise as much
taste upon a son's personal adornment as she could have done upon a
daughter's, but she did all she was able. John Henry wore ruffled
shirts, and carried hem-stitched pocket-handkerchiefs, his mittens were
knitted in fancy stitches, and he had little slippers with roses
embroidered on the toes to wear in the house. She also feather-stitched
his blue-jean overalls.
John Henry's father, who was a farmer, insisted that his son should
learn to work on the farm, and his mother, though she would have
preferred to have had him in the house with her making quilts and
pin-cushions, had to consent. Every day John Henry was arrayed in
overalls, and did his task in field and garden; but his mother
feather-stitched the overalls with white linen thread, though all the
neighbors laughed, and John Henry was privately ashamed of them.
However, his father bade him humor poor mother, and he never objected to
the decoration. John Henry wore the overalls now, for he had been
working with his father all the morning. There was no school all the
next week, on account of Christmas holidays. It was only a half-hour
before noon--John Henry's father had sent him home, lest his mother
should think he was working too long, and the boy had sat down on the
fence to take an observation on the way. John Henry was rather given to
pauses for reflection and observation upon his little way of life.
Although it was late in December, the day was quite mild; there was a
warm haze in the horizon distances, and the wind blew in soft puffs from
the south. John Henry had taken his jacket off--it lay on the ground
beside the fence. He shrugged his blue-jean knees up to his chin,
clasped his hands around them, and stared ahead with blue reflective
eyes. He did not see a boy coming across the field; he did not even hear
him whistle, though it was a loud pipe of "Marching through Georgia." He
did not notice him until he had reached the fence and hailed with a
gruff "Hullo!" Then he looked down and saw Jim Mills.
"Hullo!" responded John Henry.
Jim Mills was carrying a sack of potatoes; he let it slip to the ground,
and leaned against the fence with a sigh.
"Heavy?" inquired John Henry.
"Try it an' see."
"Where did you bring it from?"
"Thatcher's. Thought I'd come across lots, 'cause it was shorter. Where
you been?"
"Been workin' in the wood-lot."
Jim Mills looked mournfully at the potato-sack. "I've got to be goin',"
said he. "Mother wants these for dinner."
John Henry jumped down from the fence and gave the sack a manful tug
from the ground. "I'll carry it as far as my house," said he.
"You can't."
"Can, too."
The two boys moved on across the old plough ridges of the field, John
Henry a little in the rear, swung sideways by the potato-bag like a ship
by its anchor.
"Going to the tree Tuesday night?" he panted, presently.
"Ketch me!" responded Jim Mills, surlily.
"Why ain't you going?"
"What would I be going for, I'd like to know?"
"There's going to be a Christmas tree, an' you'll have something."
"What'll I have?" demanded Jim Mills, fiercely.
He turned around in the cart path and faced John Henry. He was a thin
boy, very small for his age, with a fringe of pale hair blowing under
his old cap, over big gray eyes sunken in pathetic hollows. Many people
thought that Jim Mills looked as if he did not have enough to eat.
"What d'yer s'pose I had last year?" asked he.
John Henry shook his head.
"Well, I'll tell you. I had a candy-bag and an orange and a girl's book
from the teacher. She said she was sorry there wasn't enough boys' books
to go round. When I got home I gave the candy-bag to the baby, and the
orange to little Hattie and 'Melia, and 'Liza Ann she had the book. I
ain't going to any more Christmas trees."
"Maybe you'll get something more this year," ventured John Henry,
feebly.
"Where'll I get it? Tell me that, will you? Father an' mother can't give
me anything. There's nobody but the teacher. Reckon I'll get another
girl's book from her, an' then I'll have the candy-bag an' the orange,
same as all the others, out of the school money. What would you think,
John Henry Lewis, if that was all you was goin' to have?"
John Henry shook his head vaguely.
"Guess you wouldn't go to the Christmas tree any more than some other
folks," said Jim Mills. "There you've got your father and your mother,
and your uncle Joe and your aunt Jane, and your aunt Louisa and your
grandfather and grandmother Lewis and your grandmother Atkins, to bring
presents to the tree for you. How'd you feel if you had to go there and
hark for your name to be called, and hear it: 'John Henry Lewis'--then
you march out before 'em all and git a little candy-bag; 'John Henry
Lewis'--then you march out and get an orange; 'John Henry Lewis'--then
you march out and get a girl's book, and all of them things that
everybody else has? Guess you'd be ashamed to go to Christmas trees as
much as me. If your folks be poor and can't have things, I guess you
don't want to tell of it before everybody."
Jim Mills turned about and went on with a defiant stride; John Henry
followed, tugging the potato-sack. When the boys reached the house his
mother called out of the window to set it down directly, he would lame
his shoulders, and Jim Mills flushed all over his little pinched face.
"Told you it was too heavy for you," he muttered.
"It's as light as a feather, mother," called John Henry.
He ran around to the wood-shed and got a little wheelbarrow and loaded
the potato-sack into that.
"There! you can carry it easier this way," he said; and Jim Mills
trundled off, without any thanks save an acquiescent grunt. Jim Mills
had so few favors shown him that sometimes they seemed to awaken within
him an indignant surprise, instead of gratitude.
John Henry was so abstracted during dinner that his mother feared he was
ill, and wished him to take some tincture of rhubarb. After dinner he
went out in the barn, and curled himself up in the hay-mow to think.
During the next two days he seemed to be in a brown study. Monday, the
day before Christmas, Jim Mills brought the wheelbarrow home, and John
Henry beckoned him into the barn.
"Look here, Jim; you'd better go to that tree to-morrow night."
"What for, I'd like to know?"
"Oh, 'cause you'd better."
"Why had I better? I ain't going to tramp half a mile to that old
school-house to get a candy-bag and an orange and a girl's book."
"Say, Jim, you go."
"What for?"
"Oh, something," replied John Henry, mysteriously and evasively.
Jim Mills's gray eyes took on a sudden sharpness. "What d'yer mean?"
"Oh, nothing. I rather guess you'll get something more this time,
though."
"Say what you heard, John Henry Lewis!" Jim Mills questioned, eagerly.
"I didn't say I'd heard anything. You just better go to the Christmas
tree, though; if you don't, you'll be sorry."
"You're fooling?"
"No, I ain't fooling!"
Finally Jim Mills agreed to go to the Christmas tree; in fact, John
Henry made him promise solemnly, though he would not give his reason.
However, Jim Mills went home in a state of bewildered expectation and
elation. He was finally convinced that somebody was going to hang
something fine on the Christmas tree for him, that John Henry knew it,
and had promised not to tell. The tree was to be in the district
school-house. All Tuesday afternoon John Henry, with some other boys and
girls, worked hard decorating the school-house with evergreen. The tree
had been set up in the morning, and people had begun to bring the
presents; the teacher and some of the older girls were tying them on.
Now and then John Henry made a détour in that direction, and peeped
furtively. Before he went home he made quite sure that all the presents
which he expected were there. He counted them over as he trudged home
over the moonlit snow-crust. A deep snow had fallen on Sunday, and so
averted the danger of a green Christmas. The moon was full, and
considerably above the horizon, though it was still early. John Henry
hurried, for he had much to do.
Supper was all ready when he reached home, and he ate it so hastily that
his mother was afraid he would have indigestion. After supper he went up
to his room and put on his best clothes, which his mother had laid out
on the bed for him. Then he watched his chance--standing at the head of
the stairs, and making sure that the doors below were shut--of stealing
softly down and out of the front door.
It was about an hour before the time set for the Christmas festivities.
He sped along through the moonlight. Twice he saw some one coming far
down the road, and slunk to the cover of a bush, like a rabbit. One man
went crunching past without a pause, but the other stopped when he
neared the bush, and stared about him incredulously.
"I swan, I thought I see somebody ahead here," John Henry heard him say.
He hugged close to the shadow of the bush until the squeaking crunch of
the man's footsteps were out of hearing, then he came out and ran for
the school-house, which was not far distant.
The windows were quite dark, and the door was locked. John Henry,
however, was not dependent upon a door; he raised a window, and climbed
in easily enough. The little interior was full of the spicy fragrance of
evergreen, which had also a subtle festive suggestiveness. John Henry
stole across to the desk, took a match from his pocket, and lighted a
lamp, and then the tree blazed out. It was a fine tall tree, festooned
with garlands of pop-corn, and grafted, as it were, into splendid and
various fruit bearing. John Henry was not long in the school-house. He
had brought a lead-pencil and rubber, and had noted the exact hanging
places of his presents. It was barely ten minutes before the windows
were again dark and John Henry was hurrying home.
His mother, who was very busy putting on a new brown cashmere dress, and
his father, who was shaving, had not missed him. He stole in quietly,
and sat down by the sitting-room stove. He was elated, but he had some
misgivings. He was quite sure of his good motives, and yet there was a
little sense of guilt.
When at length he started again, with his father and mother, he was very
quiet. His mother asked him two or three times on the way if he did not
feel well, and pulled his scarf more closely around his neck.
The district school-house was packed that evening; all the scholars and
their families had come. Jim Mills was already there when John Henry
entered, and rolled his eyes about at him with a curious expression of
mingled hope and doubt.
Poor Jim Mills turned pale when the distribution of gifts began, and
listened intently, every nerve strained, for his own name. He had not
long to wait. He went down the aisle, his knees shaking, and
received--not an orange, not a candy-bag, not the girl's book, of which
he had still a bitter suspicion, but a parcel which at the first touch
he knew, with a bewilderment of rapture, to contain skates. He had
scarcely reached his seat before his name was called again, and forth he
went for the second time, and was given a jack-knife with many blades.
Then he went up to receive a top, then a boy's book, then another boy's
book, then a pair of beautiful red mittens, then a sled. Jim Mills
started up at the sound of his name and traversed the school-room until
everybody stared, and the teacher began to look puzzled and anxious. She
consulted with the committee-man who was distributing the presents, and
his wife, who had been helping her that afternoon. Then she went to John
Henry's father and mother, and one of his aunts who was there, and they
all whispered together. Finally she bent over Jim Mills and whispered to
him, and he immediately crooked his arm around his face, leaned forward
upon his desk, and began to cry. He was a nervous boy; he had not eaten
much that day, and the fall from such an unwonted height of joyful
possession was a hard one.
"You must tell me the truth, Jim Mills," the teacher whispered, sharply.
"I--didn't," responded Jim Mills, with a painful cry, as if she had
struck him.
"If you did come in here while we were gone and mark John Henry Lewis's
presents over for yourself, tell me at once, if you do not want to be
very severely punished," said the teacher, quite aloud.
Jim Mills did not repeat his denial; he only gave a great heaving sob.
The scholars stood up in their seats to see.
"What a wicked boy!" exclaimed a woman near John Henry.
"He ought to be put in jail," returned another.
"He didn't do it!" John Henry cried out, wildly.
"He must have," said the first woman.
"Yes; you're a real good boy to stand up for him, but he must have,"
agreed the second woman.
"I tell you he didn't!" almost screamed John Henry; but they paid no
more attention. He called the teacher, waving his arms frantically, but
she was still busy with Jim Mills, and did not hear or see him. He tried
to get up the aisle to her, but it was now blocked. He could not reach
his father and mother for the same reason.
Finally John Henry Lewis made a desperate plunge down the aisle, and
into the middle of the floor beside the tree. He raised his hand, and
everybody stared at him. He was very pale, and his voice almost failed
him, but he persisted in the first speech of his life.
"I did it," said he. "He mustn't be blamed. He didn't know anything
about it. I told him he'd better come to-night, 'cause he'd get
something nice, but that was all he knew about it. All he had last
Christmas was an orange and a candy-bag and a girl's book, and he wasn't
coming again. I had all the presents and he didn't have anything, and so
I swapped. He ain't the one to be blamed; I am."
John Henry, pretty little mother's boy that he was, stood before them
all, tingling with the rare shame of a generous action, meeting the
astonished faces with the courage of one who invites punishment for
guilt.
There was a pause--some one said afterwards that there were five minutes
during which you might have heard a pin drop--then a woman caught her
breath with something like a sob, and the teacher spoke.
"You may go to your seat, John Henry," said she.
* * * * *
After the Christmas tree that night there was great speculation as to
whether Jim Mills would be allowed to keep John Henry Lewis's presents,
and as to what John Henry's folks would say to him.
It was ascertained beyond doubt that Jim Mills did keep the presents,
and it was reported that all John Henry's father said to him was that in
future he mustn't lay his plans to do anything like that without telling
his folks about it. As for John Henry's mother, she and his grandmother
Atkins bought him a little silver watch for a New-Year's present,
because they felt uneasy about letting him sacrifice quite so much. His
grandmother, who was superstitious, said that John Henry had always been
delicate, and she was afraid it was a bad sign.
[Illustration]
CHRISTMAS AT THE DOOR.
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
Here's Christmas at the door again!
There's never a day so dear,
Nor one we are half so glad to see,
In the course of the whole round year.
It isn't that Santa Claus comes back,
And his hands with gifts are full;
It isn't that we have holidays,
When we need not go to school.
But the air is thrilled with happiness,
The crowds go up and down,
And people laugh and shout for joy
When Christmas comes to town.
There's nobody left to stand outside,
The world is bright with cheer,
For Christmas-time is the merriest time
In the whole of the big round year.
We try to love our enemies now,
And our friends we love the more,
That strife and anger fade away
When Christmas taps at the door.
"THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS."
[Illustration: CLEMENT C. MOORE.]
The author of the famous poem that recounts in such graphic language
"The Visit of St. Nicholas" was born in the city of New York, July 15,
1779. His boyhood was passed at the country-seat of his father, called
Chelsea, then far remote from the city, but now a very thickly settled
portion of it, and embracing a large tract in the vicinity of Ninth
Avenue and Twenty-third Street.
Dr. Moore received his early education in Latin and Greek from his
father, the venerable Bishop of New York, and in 1798 he graduated from
Columbia College. He devoted himself to the study of the Hebrew
language, and the result of his labors appeared in the form of a Hebrew
and English Lexicon, which was published in 1809, and he was thus the
pioneer in the work of Hebrew lexicography. In 1821 Dr. Moore was made
Professor of Biblical Learning in the General Theological Seminary of
the Episcopal Church. From his magnificent estate he donated to the
Episcopal Church the tract on Ninth Avenue between Twentieth and
Twenty-first streets, and the Theological Seminary there erected is a
lasting monument to his liberality and devotion to the sacred cause.
In the intervals between the time devoted to more serious studies his
principal amusement was writing short poems for the amusement of his
children, and among them was "The Visit of St. Nicholas," which was
written for them as a Christmas gift about 1840. The idea, he states,
was derived from an ancient legend, which was related to him by an old
Dutchman who lived near his father's home, and told him the story when a
boy.
In those days every young lady was supposed to have an "album," and a
relative who was visiting the family quickly transferred the verses to
hers. They were first published, much to the surprise of the author, in
a newspaper printed in Troy. They attracted immediate attention, and
were copied and recopied in newspapers and periodicals all over the
country. An illustrated edition, in book form, was published about 1850,
and since then School Readers have made them familiar to generation
after generation of children. They have been translated into foreign
languages, and a learned editor informed us of his delight and surprise
when travelling in Germany to hear them recited by a little girl in her
own native tongue.
After a long life of honor and usefulness, Dr. Moore died, at his summer
residence in New York, July 10, 1863. For him may be claimed the
peculiar distinction of being the author of the two extremes of
literature--learned works on ancient languages for profound scholars,
and Christmas verses for little children. The learned works, upon which
he spent years of constant labor, have been superseded by works of still
greater research, but the man is yet to be born who can write anything
to supersede the little poem that has made Santa Claus and his tiny
reindeer a living reality to thousands of children throughout our broad
land.
[Illustration: REDUCED FAC-SIMILE OF THE MANUSCRIPT OF DR. MOORE'S
FAMOUS POEM.]
THE WORD OF THE GUNS.
BY EARLE TRACY.
The little _Mystery_ was lying off the pier at Martinez's. Night had
covered sail-boat and row-boat alike, and while all Potosi gathered
towards the front celebrating Christmas eve with the rockets and the
fire-crackers that are not once thought of on the Fourth of July, Mr.
Martinez and Bascom were silently carrying bags of gold on board the
_Mystery_. As the sails ran up in the snapping cold, the mournful cry of
her ropes was the only sound on the Back Bay, and it smote Bascom; and
Mr. Martinez's grasp and his whispered cautions to Captain Tony, and the
solemn gold that he had carried, weighed upon his heart as they put out.
Everything had been arranged on the deck for mounting the one which was
best preserved of the six mysterious old cannon that he had found the
summer before sunk in Potomoc Bay. It had been left covered by
tarpaulins in a row-boat off Captain Tony's point, where they could get
it as they passed. They ran the schooner across from Mr. Martinez's to
the point, and neither of them spoke along the way. When they reached
the boat, Bascom sprang over into it and lifted off the tarpaulins.
There was nothing underneath.
"The cannon's gone," he whispered. "What does it mean?"
"Somebody playin' a joke to spoil our fun," said the Captain, and the
darkness hid the worried frown upon his face. "Yo' mus' go ashore an'
look for it; bud doan' be long."
"Looks like it's too funny for a joke," said Bascom, "less'n it's one of
ole Captain Aristide's. I never heard of his playin' one, only he was
along here to-day when I was a-polishin' the gun, an' he seemed mighty
inter_est_ed. It kind o' shivered me, but I went on sweet an' innocent
about our keepin' Christmas, firin' in the channel."
"Aristide?" repeated Captain Tony, and he crossed his arms on the tiller
and pulled his hat down over his eyes, and thought, while Bascom rowed
ashore. Captain Aristide Lorat was known by every one to be the
craftiest man along the coast. His neighbors had never guessed that in
his free and gallant youth he had been a pirate neither more nor less.
He was too old now to enjoy the personal risk of such enterprises, and
he gave his direct attention to a prosaic carrying trade; but his old
preferences survived in the form of a few boats which did whatever
smuggling or wrecking came in their way. They were seldom seen in
Pontomoc Bay, and had never been recognized in their true character nor
connected with Captain Lorat, and yet Captain Tony did not like to think
that old Aristide had been nosing in their affairs. For it was something
unusual that was taking the _Mystery_ out on Christmas eve.
Mr. Martinez, the owner of the great canning-factory for which Captain
Tony and Bascom sailed, was the chief of a quiet organization of Cubans
who were wealthy enough to make their patriotism of substantial
disadvantage to Spain. Just now, in one of the frequent insurrections,
there had been an unexpected call on the society for aid. A Cuban boat
was secretly coasting off Horn Island, waiting their messenger, for this
was at a time when the United States was not much inclined towards
sympathy. Martinez had two reasons for sending Captain Tony out to it.
Tony was infallibly prudent and brave, and he was trustworthy, both from
the integrity of character which made him dislike the mission, and from
an indebtedness to his employer which forbade his refusing it. Mr.
Martinez had given them the _Mystery_.
"They made a clean job," whispered Bascom, coming back. "They've taken
that and the two next best out'n the shed where I was polishin' them. It
must have been Captain Aristide. Has he any grudge agin us?"
"None dat I know of," the Captain said; "an' we can't stop an' study
'boud it now. It is of mo' impo'tance dat we do ouah wo'k dan dat we
fire guns, even to say dat it is done." Captain Tony's regret at taking
Bascom out on a holiday had suggested carrying the best cannon along and
firing it, for Bascom had been putting all his savings into ammunition
and fireworks for Christmas. Mr. Martinez approved, thinking a water
celebration would help to explain their going, and they were to fire him
a reassurance when they went through Potosi Channel on their way to the
oyster-beds when their mission had been carried out.
The actual fact of the case was that Captain Lorat needed no more than
the knowledge that a boat was going out. Other bits of knowledge gained
from other sources only required this to piece them to a whole. He
decided it would be better not to let Bascom have a gun on board, and
while the _Mystery_ was taking her cargo at Martinez's pier, he had all
of them that looked as if they might be used loaded upon a schooner that
had come into the bay since dark.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE MEN JUMPED ON BOARD AND GRAPPLED WITH THE
CAPTAIN.]
Toward three in the morning Bascom found his eyelids growing so heavy
that he could scarcely keep from drowsing against the mast in the snug
warm lee of the sail. The _Mystery_ was just about to round the Horn
when a row-boat load of men swished past her bows. Bascom drew himself
together and sprang swiftly to the rail. One of the men was already
climbing up the side, but he jumped on board and grappled with the
Captain. There was a volley of shots, and the Captain dodged into the
cabin, where the gold was stowed. The men swarmed up over the deck. For
a moment Bascom had thought they were the Cubans, but now he caught up
one of his rockets, lighted it, and held it steady while it rose. The
Cuban boat must surely be waiting round the point of the island, and it
would see the signal. A man leaped round the mast and knocked him down,
but as Bascom rolled over to the rail he saw the rocket singing up to
break in scintillating brightness through the night. He wriggled like a
cat to the stern and dropped down the hatchway. He pulled the hatches
shut, but there was a rush of feet along the deck, and the blade of the
anchor came crashing through the cabin-top. Bascom threw himself into a
bunk, and before the Captain, who was reloading in a corner, could close
his revolver and lift it, the roof was torn from over them; three men
poured in, seized the Captain and Bascom, bound them both, and carried
off the gold. The lantern hung battered, but its light was not out, and
the prisoners looked at each other in despair.
"Reckon I give it to dem better dan I got," he said, "bud I'm t'inkin'
'boud how we can catch dem again an' take ouah money back."
"I'm kind of expectin' comp'ny," said Bascom. "Them Cubans is dumber'n I
take 'em for if they don't mosey up to see what my rocket meant. I fired
one just as you dodged in the cabin."
"Dere is one question," Captain Tony said. "Get yo'se'f close an' tuhn a
little so I can take a bite at dat rope. Yo' signal may have attrac' de
government cruiser dat's lyin' off Ship Islan'."
"Oh!" said Bascom. "Well, we got a lot of time before they can steam
over." He rolled himself against the Captain, who craned his neck
forward and worked with his strong creole teeth at the knots. He was
still pulling at them when feet were heard scrambling to the deck again,
and two men looked in at the shattered hatch. They spoke to Captain Tony
in Spanish, of which Bascom only recognized the pass-word that Mr.
Martinez had given them.
"Dey come to yo' rocket," the Captain translated while the men unbound
them, "an' dey was in time to see de boat put off from de _Mystery_, so
de Cuban schooner has gone after dem, sendin' dese two men in a skiff
here."
"Which way've the scalawags gone?" inquired Bascom, jumping to his feet.
"De way dey had to," answered the Captain, hurrying to the deck. "Dey
reach deir schooner, an' as de Cubans was comin' from outside, dey had
to put in. We'll be ovah-haulin' dem; dese men say de Cuban boat is as
good at chasin' as she is at showing her heels. We goin' along too.
Reckon yo' has to tek de tiller," he added, and he stood by, with his
arm wrapped in a piece of canvas for a sling, and laid the course. Ahead
of them they could just see the Cuban boat plying back and forth with a
long tack and a short tack, and the _Mystery_ turned eastward. The Cuban
boat could not trust herself far inland where she did not know the
channels, and the smugglers would take their first opportunity to make a
sudden run east into one of the bayous; and Captain Tony determined
that the _Mystery_ should cut them off. It was a hare-and-hounds chase,
and the hours passed among the stars while the three boats doubled and
redoubled at top speed, gaining on one tack, losing on the next. Pale
clouds began to drift across the sky, and there was a taste of morning
in the wind. The Captain slapped Bascom on the back. "Yo' boy," he
chuckled, "dat Cuban boat is de stuff! She's run dem down so fine dat
dey's headin' 'cross de shoals, an' dey boun' to stay dere an' wait faw
us, by my reckonin'."
Bascom giggled, but the Captain whistled in a new tone. "W'at in de name
of reason!" he exclaimed; "dey tu'nin' back across de Cuban's course? Oh
ho!"
A cloud of smoke went up, and there was a great rumbling hoarse report
such as had not been heard in those waters since the war. "Dey firin'!"
the Captain gasped. The sound vibrated among the waves and sank away,
and the smoke cleared. The Cuban was not hurt. She turned like a girl
courtesying, and a sharper shot came caracoling on the waves, this time
from her.
"De mad folly!" shouted the Captain. "Dey wan' to raise de dead, let
alone all de cruisers on de coas'!"
Bascom danced at the tiller. He was quivering with his first thrill of
war--not only war between the Cubans and the smugglers, but soon with
the United States. Over their shoulders he could see the faint line of a
cruiser's smoke against the west. The Captain was looking very grave.
"Dis'll be de darkes' day de _Mystery_ seen yet," he said. "I 'ain't
nevah liked dis job, me, bud it look like we couldn' refuse."
"One thing for the firing," said Bascom, "it's Christmas mornin'."
"Christmas gift," said the Captain, grimly. "Reckon de smugglers is
sayin' it! Dey los' a mas' by dat las' shot."
"Christmas--" ejaculated Bascom, and stopped short as the whistle of the
wind in the rigging was drowned again by a terrific explosion that shook
the sea. As they peered out under the smoke, something dropped like a
spent ball on the deck. The Captain picked it up, and after a moment's
scrutiny passed it over to Bascom. It was an unmistakable fragment from
the muzzle of one of Bascom's guns. The peculiar alloy that was neither
brass nor bronze, and that had puzzled every one when the guns were
raised, left no opening for doubt.
"Golly," said Bascom, "rather bust than shoot agin its frien's!" He
stroked the powder-smelling piece against his cheek and almost kissed it
for delight.
The Captain noted the growing trail of smoke in the west and spoke to
the two Cubans. One of them pointed at the smugglers' schooner. She was
settling fast, and the men on board of her were raising a white flag.
The _Mystery_ and the Cuban boat answered the signal, and the three
Captains met on board the _Mystery_ to make terms.
The smuggler Captain was a tall, pleasant-faced American of Scotch
descent, with a wounded cheek and big fierce-looking mustaches. "I've
got the best of myself so bad," he declared, "that you can say what you
want, but it'll not be to your advantage to leave my schooner standing
on the edge of the bar to tell tales; so what I propose is this: I'll
give you back your scads without any more fuss if you'll tow what's left
of her into Davis Bayou out of sight and give us permission to skip."
The Cuban Captain declined to do this, and it was finally decided that
while the _Mystery_ beat back and forth in the sound, the Cuban should
tow the smugglers out of danger and then make good her own escape.
Bascom went across in the tender with the other skiffs to get his guns.
"Your boss is grit, ain't he?" said the smuggler Captain as they pulled
through the white foam on the bar. "I reckoned on an ordinary skeery
creole, but the way things has turned out, it's good I reckoned wrong."
"It would have been gooder for you if you hadn't reckoned on my guns,"
said Bascom, getting aboard the wreck, among a demoralized crew, and
laying his hand on the only piece he saw. "What's gone with the first
one? How did you know about 'em, anyhow?"
The Captain preluded his answer with a fair volley of imprecations. "And
I wish the fiends had taken 'em before they ever fouled my deck," he
finished. "I didn't count on firin' 'em; I jus' took 'em to keep you
from makin' a noise, but I brought along your ammunition for prudence
an' knowin' it would come handy some day, an' when I was close put I
jus' let 'em holler. First one broke loose an' jumped into the water,
shootin' at kingdom come, an' the nex' busted an' busted us, so I wish
you joy of firin' this third."
"Joy?" said Bascom; "well, I rather guess!" It was the one he had
planned for from the first, and which had been stolen from the row-boat.
"You wasn't allowing that guns what's seen enough of life to know what
side they're on would turn agin their frien's, was you? Just you listen
an' you'll hear this one speakin' calm and pleasant when she gets on
board the _Mystery_. And I'll give you this pointer," he added, from the
boat to which the gun had been lowered, "next time you want to borrow
something of mine, jus' remember that my things mos'ly has peculiar
workin's, an' I can manage 'em best."
Half or three-quarters of an hour later, when every trace of the wreck
was out of sight, and the sails of the Cuban boat were flitting
innocently between Horn Island and the shore on the way east, the United
States cruiser shone near at hand, trim and slender and dauntless in the
sunrise.
"Well," said Captain Tony, as they watched her despatch an officer
towards them in a boat, "it's jus' to brass it out now. We've got to do
it faw Mr. Martinez. He'll be in mighty bad troubl' if our tale don't
satisfy dat young chap comin' dere. Bud if it do, it's good enough faw
ev'ybody else--even ole Aristide, although it will disturb him mo' dan
he will say--if what we t'ink is true. Dis insurrection an'
secret-service business may be all hones' faw de peopl' dat belongs to
it, bud it cost me an' yo' an' de little _Mystery_ mo' in small feelin'
dan it pay, an' I say dis is de las' time faw enemy or frien'."
"Me too," cried Bascom, "an' the old gun thinks the same. They was dead
down on this from the start, an' I reckon that's the word what they've
waited so patient to get a chance to say."
The ship's boat drew alongside, and the officer came aboard to inquire,
with the commander's compliments, why a little battered schooner was
idling among the shoals in a norther, firing cannon.
Bascom and the Captain saluted together. "Christmas gifts," they cried.
"Usses had dese curious ole gun," the Captain explained, "w'at we raised
out of de water las' yeah, an' dis boy has been waitin' evah since faw
Christmas mornin' to fire 'em. An' I t'ought me dat it would be mo' safe
to come out heah an' try dem before firin' in Potosi Channel, as was his
wish. An' indeed it has prove dat I was right, for one of dem stepped
right off into de water dat it come from, an' de nex' it busted, as you
see," and he pointed to the cabin-top and to the bits of cannon that
Bascom had gathered for keep-sakes from the sinking boat.
"Usses has been havin' a reg'lar party," Bascom added. "You are our most
'ristocratic callers, but you isn't our first. They'll be takin' the
word of the guns clear to Mobile an' as far as you go, whichever way
that is."
"Then this is one of the forgotten guns that were raised in Pontomoc Bay
last summer?" the Lieutenant said. "I've heard of them." He examined the
piece like a toy. He was a young man with straightforward clear eyes
that commanded the same frankness they expressed, and had been very
uncomfortable to meet until this open subject was reached. The
Lieutenant saw Bascom's face light up with responsive enthusiasm, and he
ran on: "It may have belonged to one of the old discoverers. Why, I can
just see the old chaps that manned it when the ship went down, standing
on tiptoe round it, with their swords clanking and their queer old
clothes flapping in this very wind perhaps! You know I believe they
would like it if we had the old veteran fire a salute."
"Usses would like that too," the Captain said.
Bascom had no answer. He looked across to the ship where the stars and
stripes that had fought their way from so much ancient bravery were
riding high in the gold sun-light and the wind. He looked until his eyes
grew dim and the figure of the Lieutenant priming the cannon became
blurred so that all the shadowy old crew seemed to have marshalled
themselves aboard the _Mystery_ to man their gun. "Christmas gift," he
murmured, and his heart came up into his throat. Then the voice of the
gun rolled out, mellow and husky and peaceful after centuries of sleep.
The recoil went from stem to stern like a great thrill of joy. The smoke
swept away on the wind, and the Lieutenant touched Bascom on the
shoulder. There was an interval of silence, and then the man-of-war
saluted the little _Mystery_.
A LOYAL TRAITOR.
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER IX.
A PRIVATEERSMAN.
No one was stirring in the inn except a sleepy, draggle-headed pot-boy,
lazily sweeping out the tap-room. Although I was very hungry, I
determined on a ramble along the water-front before breakfast, and I
headed down the street.
I remembered very well where I had landed from the _Minetta_, and that
upon the occasion of her entering the harbor I had been surprised at the
number of vessels at the wharves; but now they seemed to be trebled. A
maze of masts and rigging arose above the tree-tops, but the scene
lacked the life and movement of loading and unloading.
The vessels appeared slovenly and unkempt, their yards at all angles,
and their shrouds sagging. Close to me, with a long bowsprit extending
almost into the front yard of one of the white houses that clustered at
the southern bend of the harbor, was a great three-masted ship. Her cut
was different from most of those that I had seen, but what held my eye
was this: her foremast had been spliced neatly with wrappings of great
rope, and three or four jagged breaks showed in her topsides and
bulwarks. She was lying close to a great warehouse that prevented a view
of the open bay, and I walked down the pier. The great vessel had
quarter-galleries, like a man-of-war, and above her rudder-post I read
the words, "_Northumberland_ of Liverpool"; then I remembered hearing
the night before that this vessel had come in under the lee of the
_Young Eagle_, and had been one of the richest fruits of her first
cruise.
When I reached the pier-head I walked out on the string-piece, and
climbing on the top of a pile of lumber, I looked out across the smooth
water. A quarter of a mile from shore lay the tidiest-looking craft that
I ever clapped my eyes on. She was not very small, but sat low in the
water. A backward rake to her masts gave her a jaunty appearance, and
the tall spars that lifted high above her deck looked as slender as
whipstocks. Her jib-boom was of tremendous length, but at that time I
did not know enough either to criticise or to appreciate her altogether
at a glance.
It was setting out to be a scorching day. The smell of sperm-oil and
pine timber came from beneath and about me, and so still was it that the
sound of a man rowing a dory over against the farther shore sounded
plainly. I could hear every thump in the thole-pins. The clicking of a
block and tackle broke out, and a musical high-toned bell hurriedly
struck the hour from the little brig. That she was the _Young Eagle_ I
had no doubt, and it flashed across me that maybe I had gotten myself in
somewhat of a predicament, and that maybe it would be better for me to
find Captain Temple and inform him that, while I did know something of
small arms, I was in truth nothing of a sailor.
I took the paper out of my pocket, and saw that there was no reference
made to performing the duties of seamanship, but that I had been
enlisted to instruct the crew in a branch with which I felt myself
perfectly familiar.
My old friend Plummer had promised to help me learn the ropes, and so I
determined to go ahead without any explaining.
Thinking that it would be best to report to my commander at the inn and
await his orders, I turned my footsteps back into the town. And as I
walked the path along the tree-lined street, why I should fall to
thinking of Mary Tanner I do not know. I took a squint down at myself in
my sailor finery, and rather admired the way the wide bell-shaped
trousers flapped about my ankles. The wish grew upon me that Mary could
see me as I was. Thus, with my head down, I hastened on, and did not
perceive that an open gate swung across the way until I had run afoul of
it, bows on.
As I leaned over to rub my shin I heard a laugh, and looking up, there,
not ten feet from me, was the very person who had been in my mind--Mary
Tanner herself! The power is given to women to control the expressions
of their feelings in a manner that fails men altogether. At least I
might say we are more clumsy at it. I was so astounded that I could not
speak a word, and stood there on one leg like a startled sand-piper. She
spoke first.
"Well, where did you come from?" she laughed, gathering up her apron in
one hand. It had been filled with roses she had been clipping from a
bush.
If the time had been longer since I had seen her, I think I might have
been tempted to reply from China or some distant port, as her laughter
galled me sharply. But as it was, I answered her somewhat falteringly,
to be sure,
"From up there," pointing with my fingers toward the north.
"How did you get away from Gaston?" she asked.
At the mention of the old man's name I could not help but give a glance
over my shoulder, at which Mary laughed and asked another question.
"Where did you get those outlandish clothes?"
"I'm a sailor," I replied, giving a hitch to my trousers.
"Oh no, you're not," said Mary, throwing back her head. "You're a boy."
"I wish you a good-morning, Mistress Tanner," I replied, making an
effort to pull off the tight-fitting Portugee cap, and only succeeding
in giving my hair a tweaking. "Good-morning, Mistress Tanner; time has
not improved your manners."
I walked away, angry. It is no evidence of superior wisdom on my part to
here make an observation; but six months of a town life will change a
woman and teach her more than five years spent on a hill-side farm, and
this is no falsehood. I had gone but a few rods when I heard my name
called, and, looking back, I saw Mary leaning over the fence and
beckoning to me with a rose in her fingers. Affecting a great deal of
leisure, I retraced my steps.
"Are you really going to sea?" she asked.
Now although I could see how great the change had been that had come
over her, this was spoken after the old manner; and despite the feeling
that things were not exactly as they had been, I felt more at my ease.
"I'm one of the crew of the _Young Eagle_," I replied, and I must
confess it, proudly.
"My!" was all Mary vouchsafed to this, but I noticed that her eyes
brightened and that she flushed. The rose she had been holding fell from
her hand, and I bent over and picked it up. As I offered to return it,
she looked at me slyly.
"Why don't you keep it?" she asked.
"Because you have not given it to me."
"Then I will give you another."
As I took the flower she extended, an entirely new sensation thrilled
me, and though this part of our short interview may be interesting or
not, I am glad to set it down fully.
"Oh, I've got some news to tell," said Mary, looking at me archly.
"What is it?" I inquired. "Good news?"
"Yes; I may be rich some day, John."
"Rich!" I exclaimed. "How is that, pray tell me?"
"You see, my grandfather who lives in Canada was a Tory," Mary
answered. "His name is Middleton--one of the Irish Middletons--and when
he left New London my mother would not go with him, for my father was an
American soldier. Now my grandfather wishes me to come to him."
"Oh, are you going?" I asked, with my heart beating loudly.
"Well, I won't go now," Mary replied. "You see, my father is very ill
here at my uncle's." A shade of sadness came into her voice. "He wants
me to go," she continued, "but I won't leave him for any grandfather, no
matter how rich he is."
"If you went, perhaps I would never see you again," I said faintly.
"Why," she answered, opening her eyes wide, "you could come and see me."
"When?"
"When you got command of your own ship." She smiled as she spoke.
"I'll have one some day," I spoke up bravely. "And that is what I'll
do."
But an interruption came to this little dialogue.
"Look up the street," cried Mary, suddenly pointing.
I did so, and my heart fell. Here came the frightful old Gaston,
shambling along, with his arms dangling in front of him; his clothes and
head-gear were fit to make a ghost grin. But as if he had been a
schoolmaster and I a truant schoolboy, I dodged through the gate and hid
behind the rose-bush. For years I could not think of this action without
chagrin, but now I could laugh at it.
"You had better not let him catch you," Mary observed, joining me, and
we peered about the corner of the rose-bush until after Gaston had
passed. That he was in quest of me there was no doubt, and I cannot help
thinking that my evident fear amused Mary Tanner, for she stood there
smiling at me, and pulling at a green branch over her head (oh, I can
well recall how she looked!); but the scene was interrupted by the
approach of a slight, quick-stepping man, who rattled a walking-stick
along the fence-pickets as he came nearer.
"Here's Captain Temple," I said, straightening up. "Now you'll see
whether I'm a sailor or not."
When the Captain was opposite the gate I stepped from behind the
rose-bush and saluted.
"Heigh, oh!" he exclaimed, looking longer at Mary than he did at me.
(She was a tall girl, and appeared older than her years.) "Heigh, oh,
I'm just in time to rescue you, my lad. 'Tis plain you're a prize to
beauty! Ay, and would fly her colors too," he added, pointing to the
rose, which I had thrust in my bosom. As he spoke the officer bowed
gallantly, and Mary dropped him a courtesy.
"Sorry, lad," Captain Temple went on, "but I may have use for you. Can
you read and write?"
"Ay, ay, sir; French and English, and Latin too," I answered.
"Ecod! a scholar, eh?" was the return. "Scholars make bad sailors. But
Bullard has gone to New London, and I would have somebody come to
McCulough's office and help me with the papers. So bid good-by to your
sweetheart, and come along--come along. We'll get under way to-morrow
mayhap, or the day after."
[Illustration: "GOOD-BY, MARY," I SAID, EXTENDING MY HAND, "DON'T FORGET
ME."]